


Two Seconds Sam Doesn't Remember

by Winnie_Chester



Series: Two Seconds Sam Doesn't Remember [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Angst, Drinking, M/M, Suicidal Sam, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 22:12:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2827871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winnie_Chester/pseuds/Winnie_Chester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean confronts Sam, again, about what the heck is going on with him. Only this time it is a little bit different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Seconds Sam Doesn't Remember

Sam was hungover.

No, Sam was very very hungover. 

He’d spent the previous evening alone at a bar trying to drink away all thoughts of his brother, which was a thing that had worked for him exactly never. But Winchesters were champs at repeating their mistakes and Sam was no exception. Plus he was getting desperate. 

Sam buried under his blanket. His entire body hurt. His head pounded and he was definitely going to throw up, probably soon. His thoughts were fuzzy and everything felt a little surreal and underwater. 

Usually he didn’t drink nearly this much. He wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten home. He remembered ordering a couple of whiskeys—he’d completely skipped dinner which was part of the problem--and he had a vague recollection of fucking the bar-back, but that was it. He hoped he hadn't embarrassed himself too badly.

Sam pulled the pillow over his head and tried vainly to will himself back to sleep. He was in no way ready to face the day, or even begin to piece together his evening.

The motel door snicked open. Usually, this would have Sam at full alert, but in his present state he decided that if wasn’t Dean, if it was someone or something coming to murder him, he might just welcome an end to the throbbing in his brain. He didn’t open his eyes.

“Come on, up an at ‘em, Sunshine. It is almost eleven.” Dean kicked the end of Sam’s bed, which sent Sam’s whole world tilting on its axis. There was something odd in Dean’s voice, something trying a little too hard to be cheery, but Sam missed it in his dive to the bathroom to re-experience all the previous evenings’ poor choices. Sam finally finished puking and stood up shakily to rinse out his mouth and run some water over his face. Dean leaned against the bathroom door, smirking.

“You know what they say, Sammy. If you can’t run with the big dogs—“

“Fuck off, Dean.” Sam may be in love with his brother, but that didn’t mean he always liked him. And today was already shaping up to be one of those days he’d be just as happy punching Dean’s stupid fucking face in as he would running his lips and tongue over Dean’s throat.

Dean’s face clouded and he backed out of the door, hands up. “Hey, I brought you some grease. You ought to be a little nicer or maybe I’ll just eat this bacon and egg sandwich all by myself.”

Sam’s stomach turned again, and he swallowed, hard, but his mood softened a little. “Uh, thanks, but pass. I’m not sure I’m quite ready for that adventure yet.” Sam sat on the edge of his bed, fully miserable. 

“Suite yourself!” Dean started rummaging through the paper bag and pulled out the sandwich and began unwrapping it. “Oh, almost forgot.” He grabbed a plastic bag off the dresser and pulled a red Gatorade out and tossed it to Sam, who stared at it blankly instead of trying to catch it. Catching seemed way out of his skill set at the moment. 

Sam picked the drink up off the floor. “Thanks. Seriously.” He wanted to chug it, but decided to test his stomach with a few sips first, just in case. 

Dean leaned against the dresser and took a huge bite of the sandwich, studying his brother, his expression unreadable. “Do you want some Advil?” 

“In a minute.” Sam took another sip of the Gatorade and a strange silence fell across the room. Dean continued to stare. “Can I help you?” Sam’s brain was too fried for this. 

Dean frowned. “Just wondering what caused my little brother to go off until two am and get all Hemingway last night.” 

Sam blinked. Under even slightly better circumstances he’d have both anticipated the question and have an answer prepared. He was such a goddamn screw up. His stomach twisted again—a physiological reaction not entirely tied to the previous evenings debasement-- and he decided to give into the urge and buy some time. 

This time he at least had enough wherewithal to close the bathroom door and keep Dean out. Which was just the perfect metaphor for his whole damn life, wasn’t it? Sam was always trying to shut doors and build walls to keep his brother from witnessing his utter sickness. 

Sam pressed his face against the porcelain and tried to come up with a believable lie. Because the truth—that he couldn’t get Dean out of his mind, that he imagined his brother naked, rocking his hips into Sam’s, hands fisted in Sam’s hair, mouth open and head tossed back, or that sometimes he even dreamed something much darker, much more worrisome —was a million times worse than lying. 

Sam wondered how long Dean would let him stay in here, wondered if Dean would leave him alone long enough for Sam to fold a towel under his head and sleep this off, wake up with a little more of his brain function restored. Sam wondered how it was possible that he could continue to make such shit choices, over and over again. If his unmatched ability to screw up and make things worse for everyone was a manifestation of all the darkness eating away inside him. 

And it was eating away. Every day he felt a little more of himself consumed, slipping away. He tried not to think about what would happen if –when?-- everything good was gone. Maybe when he was fully consumed, completely a monster, he’d be able to convince Dean he deserved to die, that allowing Sam to put a bullet in his own brain was the best for everyone. 

Sam really did believe that. 

Dean knocked on the door. Of course he wouldn’t leave Sam alone. “Did you die in there, Elvis?” 

Sam pulled his knees up to his chest and leaned against the bathtub, cracking the door open. “Really?”

“What, too soon?” Sam looked horrible, pale and sweaty and ill, and it pulled something in Dean’s chest. He retrieved the abandoned Gatorade and handed it to his brother, along with two Aspirins. “Are you done? Because I’d really like to get on the road and you are not allowed to puke in the car. I _will_ break your nose for that.”

There was something weighted strangely in Dean’s voice, and Sam didn’t particularly relish the idea of taking his hangover on the road, but being trapped in this small motel room sounded worse. And a miserable ride was barely even scraping the surface of the punishment he probably deserved. “We can go. I’ll just get my stuff.” Sam climbed to his feet, but Dean wrinkled his nose. 

“Dude. Shower first. And brush your teeth. I’ll pack.“

***  
Sam felt marginally more human after a shower, dressed in his hoodie and an old pair of Dean's sunglasses. He probably looked like the Unabomber—it was at least eighty degrees out—but it eased the pounding in his brain a little bit. 

Dean was already in the car, music thumping, when Sam slid into the passenger seat. “Please not Metallica. Not today. Please. I’ll do laundry for a month.”

Dean turned the music down but not off, and pulled out, pleased. His plan was working, and in the car Sam couldn’t escape. “That isn’t what I want. I want to know what the hell is going on with you.”

So Dean hadn’t let it go then. _Fucking perfect._

Sam leaned his forehead against the window. He wondered what would happen if he just spilled his guts about everything. He wondered if Dean would pull over and toss him out on the highway, say Sam was sick and should lose his number, or if he’d punch him unconscious instead. Sam would have let him. He toyed with the idea for a minute because god, he was so fucking tired and he didn’t feel good and it seemed inevitable that it was all going to come crashing down around him at some point. Why not now? But he—he couldn’t hurt Dean like that. And, selfishly, he wanted as much time with him as he could get. It was going to end one day, badly, Sam was sure of it--he was barely holding it together at this point-- but he just wasn’t ready for that to be today.

Dean shot a look at his brother. “And don’t you goddamn lie to me, you hear me? I’m _so_ sick of that.”

Sam sighed. Half-truths then. 

“I just—I’m worried. I’m worried I’m not good, Dean. I feel like there is something broken inside me and I don’t know what to do about it.” Sam could feel Dean studying his face, but he didn’t turn to look. “I’m not—I’m not good like you--“ Dean started to interrupt but Sam cut him off. “I’m not, okay? I’m not. And there is nothing you can say or do to make me feel differently, so just don’t try. And I don’t want to talk about it. Not now, and not ever.” Sam’s voice cracked. “But I’m sorry about disappearing and coming home wasted last night, and I’m sorry about getting into moods sometimes. But I’m dealing with it the best I can, and I have to do it alone.” Sam sucked in a breath. _There. All of that was even true._ But Dean exploded. 

“Are you fucking kidding me with that crap?” Dean pulled the car suddenly to the side of the rode, and turned to face his brother. “ Tell me the whole fucking truth for once! When did you decide we weren’t a team, huh? It has always been you and me. That is the only way this works! I’m tired of this. We deal with shit _together._ And whatever it is you are doing, it is clearly not working. If you won’t let me help, what is the point of me then? Of this!?!” Dean took several deep breaths, and willed the anger to leaked out of his body. He sighed, and put his head on the steering wheel, suddenly exhausted. “I just wish I knew what I did to make you decide I was too fucking stupid to help.”

Sam gaped at his brother. This wasn’t a wholly new argument for them to be having, but it felt different, somehow, this time. “I—I don’t—“ Sam didn’t even know where to begin, Dean was so far off the mark. Sam took off his sunglasses. “Dean, I don’t think you are stupid or—you are the smartest, strongest man I know. When I was a kid, I used to think you and Dad could do or fix anything, and a part of me still does, okay? But you can’t help. I just have to do this—“

Dean lifted his head off the steering wheel, fixed Sam with a weary look. “Shut up, Sam. I don’t know what the hell it is going to take to make you believe we solve problems better as a team, but I know it sure as hell ain’t gonna be me yelling at you. And I don’t want to sit here and listen to you try and mollify me.” Dean pulled the car back onto the road. “But I need you to hear this: there is nothing you could do or say that will change my mind about you, okay? I need you to know that. And one day you are going to get your head out of your goddamn ass and you are going to tell me what the hell is really going on and we will solve this together like we always do and it will finally be over. “ Dean sighed again. “I’m just so ready for this to be over.” 

Sam didn’t know what to say. Dean seemed so sure they could get through anything, but this wasn’t a demon or a vampire or something they could kill their way through. In no universe could Sam ever see them both coming out of this anything close to okay. Sam was pretty sure this current high wire act he was performing was keeping them both as close to okay as they were ever going to get. 

Sam slipped back on his sunglasses and turned up Metallica, instantly ratcheting his headache back up but blocking any more attempts at conversation. His chest ached, too, with all the things he wouldn’t let himself say. 

Dean glanced at his brother in surprise. There was more he wanted to say, at least in theory, but he’d thought about it all night, and he still had no idea how to approach it. Really, he wasn’t even totally sure he’d seen what he thought he’d seen. It had been late, he’d been pissed and Sam had been wasted. Dean could be completely misinterpreting it. He wasn’t even sure what that would mean, exactly. It was two seconds Sam clearly didn't remember. And it could have been nothing and completely unrelated to Sam’s epic unraveling of late. 

Of course, Dean’s instincts were pretty damn good where Sam was involved. But it wasn’t a thing you just accused your little brother of, not if you weren’t sure, not if you weren’t willing to risk having him—having this-- come completely undone. Dean had to wait for Sam, because Dean couldn't stand to have Sam leave again. Even if it was what he thought it was. 

Neither spoke another word for two hundred miles.


End file.
